The Madame and Her Butler
by DarkMuse112
Summary: Angelina found herself seething with deep seeded hatred for the dregs of society. Then a crimson grim reaper appeared to her, ready and willing to help her with her endeavor. Rated M for violence, gore and sexual content.
1. Chapter 1: Blood Bath

_Kuroshitsuji and all characters © Yana Toboso and SquareEnix_

I'm going to try not to be brief with my author's notes this time around. I don't know why I always feel such a desire to share every random thought that comes into my mind, but that's just how I am. :3

I do need to describe one thing to you here, now though. I found a good resource on the actual Jack the Ripper killings and will be using that for my research on this aspect of the story. I'm not quite sure how the timeline works out though. In the manga, we are told that Ciel returned 2 years earlier [before the Jack the Ripper killings] and Grell had been with Madame Red since only a few months before that. That means that at the opening of this story I have written, Ciel is not back yet. All of the canonical victims of the real life killings were taken between August and November of 1888. So that means, in terms of the manga, that Jack the Ripper had been killing for at least two years. There are however, reports of other victims of whom no one is sure if they were slain by Jack the Ripper or not, so… here's what I'm doing: for consistency's sake with the manga timeline, I'm going to assume that, yes, these earlier killings, non-canonical of the actual Ripper killings, were done by Jack the Ripper too. Since the manga has it that two people are actually Jack the Ripper, it _could_ happen that way. Maybe Madam Red and Grell have two different styles of mutilating people. At any rate… enough of my ranting.

* * *

Chapter 1: **Blood Bath**

A shriek of terror pierced the London fog like a rapier through lace as the woman rushed at her victim, knife glinting in the light of a nearby streetlamp. This whore that fed the slaughter embodied the decline in morale that plagued the city, and the east end was a deep pit, its recesses festering with all manner of scum. The outcast, the degenerate, and the diseased: all collected in Whitechapel. It would be an injustice to decent society if people like that, people who held such little value for human life, were allowed to continue living.

Slamming her victim against the exterior of the building, she felt the whore tremble as the shoulder blades ground into the rough brick. The notion of bone grinding against cement was, in her current mania, quite pleasing. Practically a slight of hand, the knife sliced through the neck and blood spurted out of the gash onto her sleeve. The agonized screams ceased, a mangled squelching replacing it. She wrestled the struggling body to the ground and stabbed the knife through the neck repeatedly. This time the energy of the flailing dissipated.

Rage coursed its way through her veins, and in her madness, lost herself completely. This whore deserved her fate. The ungrateful trollop had been to her office earlier that same day seeking a solution for a particular little "problem." She would have given anything to have the same "problem." It just wasn't fair. She had been so close to having a child of her own and then the accident and…

At this moment, there was no way to measure the hate that she harbored for the dying whore before her, as well as all the others that walked the same path.

"Oh my, myyyy! You've done such a glamorous job!"

Angelina heard a cackling laughter echoing from far above, and turned a glance over her shoulder. At the top of a nearby spire, hanging from the cross at the very tip-top, stood a cloaked figure, laughing like a jolly fool.

"I've had my eye on you… all this time! Thanks to you the list of the dead for this district is jam-packed! You've made me ever so busy you see."

Without a though, he jumped down from his perch and appeared before her. His appearance was not conventional in the least; he sported a pair of red spectacles and a mane of flaming red hair, not unlike hers, trailing down his back. His wicked grin was lined with sharp, shark-like teeth. She wasn't sure if she should be afraid of him or not.

"But I understand veeeeery well how you feel. Those hideous broads deserved to die."

He approached her and dropped to a crouch so as to be at the same eye level. He took no time to even consider her before throwing his arms around her shoulders and pulling her in, embracing her with affection.

She did not have the chance to flinch away, and, had she been completely in her right mind, in self-defense, may have taken the knife to his throat in the same way she'd done the prostitute. He had a complete disregard for personal space, and obviously did not know of her stature and reputation in high society. Regardless, this kind of physical contact was most inappropriate between a man and a woman of such new acquaintance.

He had to be one of those pushy types, or maybe he was a rapist. Perhaps, having been watching her, as he clearly stated he had been doing, he was here as a vigilante of sorts, to deliver swift justice for what she'd done. It was never certain what to expect in Whitechapel. He could have been any number of things. One thing was for certain though, and that was the glaringly obvious fact that he was not human. He could jump from extremely high places without injury, and what was this business about a list of the dead? Her mind raced, slowly returning to normal after her interrupted frenzy, as she began to wonder just what the hell was going on. So many questions had popped into her head in a matter of seconds, but the first thing she had to overcome was the fact that this stranger was touching her without permission.

"I want a baby of my very own too, but it seems that my being male is a biiiit of a problem."

So he sympathized with her plight. Maybe this was not such a bad thing after all. She felt her rage subsiding as he continued to speak softly into her ear.

"You and I, we're like two peas in a pod."

She barely heard it, but slowly, his tone transformed into something of pure sadism.

"I… will lend you a hand."

* * *

Not a single word was spoken until they had reached the townhouse. Angelina led the way, and he was so quiet that, at one point, she had to steal a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was still there. But there he was, following in her wake like a shadow. He even graced her with a tiny smirk in response.

Once they made it through the door, she closed it, averting her eyes to the floor and swallowing hard. Her mental equilibrium had returned, and the gravity of what she'd done in that street tonight was just beginning to sink in.

"I'm sorry, I'm rather a fright at the moment. Make yourself comfortable Mr…."

"Grell Sutcliff."

"Mr. Sutcliff. Please. I'll only be a moment." She made to head down the nearest hallway, but she stopped when he spoke.

"Do let me help you with that."

"With what?"

Now she turned her eyes upon him, looking at his face, seeing his features clearly for the first time in the incandescent light that illuminated the foyer. It was a somewhat feminine appearance; his face was thin with high brows and a delicate nose. False eyelashes gave his eyes that heavy smoky look.

"Your hair, darling. It's caked with blood. You'll not be able to brush that out on your own."

"Oh yes, well… I was just going to…"

"Come with me dear."

He removed his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. Grabbing her wrist, he led her toward the hallway.

"Excuse me. I am a noblewoman, and we've just met. Please let go of me!" She drew back her hand. Now her irritation in regards to his assertiveness was out in the open.

He stepped back a moment and looked at her, that devilish grin never leaving his face.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Madame. I only wish to be your friend."

"I know, and that's very kind of you. However, we just met, and I would prefer to get to know you a little better. I'm uncomfortable with the way you grab me so carelessly.

Grell put a hand to his mouth, a soft chortling in his throat. Then he looked at her with those unusual green eyes of his.

"If you suspect I'm here to take advantage of you, please, rest assured that that is not the case. I don't play for your team, darling."

She merely stared at him, unsure what to make of him, her brow furrowed in her frustration.

"Now, please, Madame. Do let me help you get yourself cleaned up. I know quite a few tricks for getting blood out of different things, hair being one of them."

"Please," she offered hesitantly, "you can call me Angelina. Though, there are those who know me as Madame Red, if you prefer."

"That is perfect, Madame Red." The grin that spread across his lips was frightening, but in a way it was also sympathetic.

This time, he gave her a slight bow, and gestured with his hand, beckoning her to show him the way to the powder room.

* * *

The hot water was just what she needed to calm her nerves. She felt the rush of the evening evaporating through her pores, and soon the images of that whore's blood on the cobblestone had faded from memory. She sunk back into the bath, the steam rising up around her.

The sensation was difficult to describe. She barely knew this Grell Sutcliff gentleman, and yet she felt surprisingly relieved to know he was waiting so patiently outside the door. Perhaps she could arrange for breakfast in the morning so that the two of them could become better acquainted.

Suddenly, there came a barely audible tapping at the door.

"Ms. Angelina?" came the muffled voice through the closed door.

"Yes?"

"I hate to interrupt, but I am needed back home."

So he was not planning on staying the night. Immediately, she felt foolish for thinking about sharing breakfast with him.

"Oh. Y-yes, of course. Alright." Even she could hear the disappointment in her voice.

"It will only be a short while. I should be back by the time you are finished with your bath."

Oh? So he would be here for breakfast?

"Certainly. Do what you need to do."

There came no response from the other side. For a long time, she waited, listening for movement, but there was nothing.

"Mr. Sutcliff?"

No response.

She heard no footfalls across the wood floor disappearing down the hall, or even the sound of the front door opening and closing in the distance as he left. It was as if he had simply vanished into thin air.

Perhaps he was just an extremely quiet person.

She shrugged off the thought and soaked in the steaming water for a little while longer before standing and draining the tub. As she reached for the towel and began drying herself, she heard another knock at the door.

"Miss Angelina?"

Grell had returned.

"Yes?"

"Are you finished?"

She threw a robe around her shoulders and tied it tightly around her waist.

"I am."

"Are you decent?"

She went to the door and opened it. Grell stood outside, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his flaming hair tied behind his back. Their eyes locked.

"Do you cut hair?"

"Why, Madame," he cried, "I can wash this out for you. There's no need to cut such beautiful red hair as yours!"

"I don't want to wash it. I want to cut it."

"But why?" He looked scandalized, like a socialite who'd just learned a dirty secret.

Her hard expression gained a hint of playfulness. "Times change, Mr. Sutcliff. A new look is in order. I'm different now. I'm not the same innocent girl I used to be, and I need a haircut that reflects that."

Grell gave a slight nod of understanding, but there was clearly a hint of remorse in his expression. Opening the door a little wider, she stepped to the side and allowed him to enter. She pulled a chair over to the washbasin, and sat, gathering her hair to one side. Then she took up the scissors from the counter.

"I'll cut it to the length I want. You can even it up after. I trust you'll do a good job."

"As you wish, Madame."


	2. Chapter 2: A Breakfast for Killers

_Kuroshitsuji and all characters © Yana Toboso and SquareEnix_

* * *

Chapter 2: **A Breakfast for Killers**

Sleep came easily for Angelina that night. The high brought about by the sensation of her knife slicing through flesh and bone had managed to linger for some time after she'd returned home with her new acquaintance. Watching as the last few strands of hair floated to the floor, however, she could feel her exertions in Whitechapel finally catching up to her. Her bones had begun to ache for the simple comfort of her bed. It was a welcome ache at least, and after bidding Mr. Sutcliff a good night, she got into bed and drifted off into a quiet, peaceful slumber, feeling cool, calm and collected: more peaceful than she'd ever felt in her life.

In the morning, the maid roused her, and she woke quickly, senses acute. She could not recall ever having this much energy, especially at this early time of day.

She called upon several servants to prepare a small but elegant breakfast to be served in the drawing room. Mr. Sutcliff was nowhere to be found at the moment, but he had promised to join her shortly after nine. He would be here soon enough.

She took her time dressing, donning an outfit more suitable for a casual affair, as she was not expected anywhere today and did not necessarily see the need to impress her new acquaintance with formalities. He'd witnessed her at her most vulnerable; surely there was no need to cross that bridge twice.

Sitting at the small table that had been set up, she browsed the early morning post, not expecting much news. It was just after Christmas. People were either still celebrating or recovering from the previous night's revelries. For the most part, the world was at peace.

Skimming the headlines, there was one article in particular that caught her eye, telling of a gruesome murder in Whitechapel. Suddenly, she felt her blood run cold, but she did not allow her expression to betray her emotion. It all came back to her. The knife, the slicing, the grinding of the bone, the sick satisfaction she'd gotten from the slick feel of the woman's spattered blood on her face, her hands…

"Madame Angelina, Mr. Sutcliff has arrived."

"Thank you, Trudy. Do let him in, please."

The maid gave a slight curtsey and quietly left, returning with Grell at her heels.

"Good morning, Madame. I do hope you slept well."

Angelina looked up into the strange, greenish-yellow eyes of her visitor, and gave the maid a polite nod. Trudy then proceeded to direct him to the table. He swiftly took the seat opposite his hostess.

"I did, thank you. And you?"

"As much as I could hope for."

She nodded, folding the paper on the table beside her place setting. The servants came around and presented them with a small portion of ham and eggs accompanied by a biscuit and some grapefruit juice. The maid brought out an English breakfast tea and poured them each a cup.

"Sugar, Mr. Sutcliff?" Angelina asked, ever the polite hostess.

"Just one lump."

The maid added the sugar to his tea and left the room. Angelina dismissed the other servants and then turned her full attention to Grell.

"It smells wonderful, Madame."

"Thank you. I employ only the finest cooks in all of England."

He picked up his fork and knife and sliced a hunk off of the ham, raising it to his mouth. She watched him curiously.

"So I see that you at least eat." She could hear the rudeness in her tone, thought she did not mean to sound indignant. Her nerves were getting the better of her, and now that she was in a more agreeable and rational state of mind, the fear she should have felt for Mr. Sutcliff the previous night was making itself known. In the heat of the moment, her mania had overridden all her other emotions.

Grell swallowed and looked at her, one thin, red eyebrow cocked in puzzlement.

"What do you mean, dear? Of course I eat. Everyone eats."

"But you're not human." It was a statement, not a question.

Grell stared back at her for a moment then set his utensils down. A wide grin spread across his face.

"Observant aren't you?"

"I don't see many humans who are able to leap from the top of a ten story building and live to tell about it."

He snickered then leaned back in his chair, placing his hands in his lap.

"I suppose if we're going to be friends I should be honest with you," he said frankly.

She eyed him suspiciously. He, a complete stranger, was putting way too much trust in her. They hardly knew each other. But then again, perhaps he overlooked this fact with the same rationale she had used when she'd overlooked her wardrobe choice this morning. He'd seen her at her most vulnerable. She'd seen him doing something that would blow his whole cover. The comfort zone had already been breached, so what did any of it matter? Then again, she'd allowed him to follow her home, not fully knowing who or what he was either, so perhaps it was her own sanity she should have been questioning on this matter of trusting others.

Grell continued, "People have an idea of Death, Madame. A lot of people think he looks like a skeleton that walks around in a black, hooded cape with an enormous farming scythe. Some people think it comes in the form of a black angel that sweeps down as a black cloud and takes the person away to his or her afterlife. And then there are some people that don't believe in a personification at all."

"I'm sorry. I'm confused. I thought we were talking about you."

"We are."

She stared at him, a puzzled look crossing her face. "So… you're Death, then?"

He gestured to himself with both hands. "You're looking at her."

"You're the Grim Reaper?"

"Not _the_ Grim Reaper, just a grim reaper, one of many. And none of us look like that bony bastard in the picture books. We're much less romantic in that sense… except for the case of myself of course." He grinned impishly. "No, where I come from, we're working stiffs in smart suits. You'd be surprised."

"So, you were following me because you were reaping the souls of my victims? Is that what you meant when you mentioned a list of the dead?"

"Precisely."

She put a finger to her chin, thoughtful.

"You don't seem as surprised as I would have thought."

"No, I am quite surprised. I'm just unsure whether I should believe any of this."

"You've seen my acrobatics. You're already aware of that much. Perhaps you've noticed the teleporting? When I left you last night during your bath, did you hear any footsteps? Doors open or close?"

"I did think that was rather odd…"

"I, Madame, am the perfect partner for your crime. I can break into people's homes without causing a scene. I can do your dirty work when you are busy, clearing your name from any suspicion, and giving you a perfect alibi. It's the perfect crime. Think about it. You need me."

She pondered the prospect. It did sound feasible.

"Okay," she finally said, "let me get this straight. You want to help me. Help me kill people."

"They aren't people, Madame. Ridding yourself of life that hasn't even gotten a chance to come into the world is what makes a monster."

"I agree. But you deal with death. Why concern yourself with the living?"

Grell slouched back in his chair and let out a heavy sigh. "Madame, I do not regret my existence in the slightest. But if there's one thing I wish I could do, it would be to have a child of my own. I believe I revealed as much to you last night. Unfortunately, as a reaper, and a male reaper at that, I cannot do such a thing. Members of our kind are not created in the conventional human manner. If I could dispense just a bit of justice, it might make me a little happier with myself."

"But why me though? I'm sure I'm not the only woman in London who's done such things."

"Madame, I would be lying if I said you were. But it is your pure, unadulterated hatred and affinity for the color red that I am most attracted to besides your cause."

"This sounds a little too good to be true. What's the catch?"

"Catch? There is no catch, Madame. I'm on your side. We want the same things. Justice. Children. Love. I require no payment except my own self-satisfaction and your company in that endeavor."

Angelina stared at him across the table. Perhaps trusting him would not be such a bad thing. And if the advantages of this partnership were as he said they would be, it _would_ be the perfect crime. She planned on killing again. Why stop at one, especially when the city, even now, was crawling with miscreants. He seemed genuine in his commitment to her, and he more than likely wouldn't be bothering with her if there were something more he wanted. He was not asking for money.

"How imminent is my own death?" she suddenly blurted.

"What? I don't know," he said swallowing another bite of food. "I only get the list for my shift. I don't know everyone in the city's calculated time of death off the top of my head. I might not even be your reaper."

"Could you find things like that out for me if I wanted?"

"Madame," he put down his fork again. "I will help you with this quest of yours, but I will not involve you in the matters of my kind, or give you any of our intelligence. It's best you don't know these things. I'm putting myself at a huge risk even exposing my true identity to you."

It was an understandable response. She still felt shot-down by him though. There was a long pause before she broke it.

"Okay."

"Hm?" he mumbled, mouth full of food.

"Okay. Let's do it."

Grell put his utensils down, and wiped his hands on the napkin.

"You're serious?"

"Am I laughing?"

He studied her for a moment before a wide grin spread across his face.

"Excellent."


	3. Chapter 3: Reaper Business

_Kuroshitsuji and all characters © Yana Toboso and SquareEnix_

This is kind of a filler chapter, but is necessary to explain Grell's take on this whole ordeal and also to explain his character and introduce William's. (I like to go about fan fiction as I would an original work and act as if these characters and the settings are new to anyone reading it.)

* * *

Chapter 3: **Reaper Business**

Madame Red was such a lovely woman. Grell had not expected her to trust him so easily and so readily as she had. He suspected that her killing those few whores had been more so on a whim than a pre-meditated act, but oh how easily she agreed to continue her justice once he'd prodded her in that direction! If he could get past the fact that he was knowingly taking advantage of her weaknesses and vulnerabilities for a bit fun, he might actually find her company enjoyable.

It was a thought that slightly deterred him. Reapers were meant to behave as mediators between the living and the dead, not form relationships with their clientele. Grell held a particular distaste for humanity to begin with, and had only been human himself for a few moments after his birth (1), so he'd never known what it was like to be fully human. It was the nature of all reapers. They held the power over the human transition of life to death, so they were a bit arrogant and tactless in regards the affairs of the non-dying. It was not in Grell's nature to associate with the living, but there was something about this woman, Madame Angelina, that quite piqued his fancy.

Actually, his own amusement was not the only reason Grell had decided to bother with this woman. He had not fully lied when he had expressed his desire to have children. The ability to give birth was the ultimate culmination of womanhood, and to throw that away was an unspeakable crime in his book. He had little desire to raise a brat of his own, but the conundrum of pregnancy was fascinating to him. What a woman's body had to go through to support and sustain the newly forming life inside of her, all the little things that had to go right and all the possibilities of something going wrong, the mess it created accompanied by a delicious pain…

He let out a soft sigh as he pondered these thoughts and continued on his way down the street. There was a cleansing chill in the air, and he buried his chin deeper into the folds of his collar as little puffs of condensation blew out his nose and mouth. They dissipated as quickly as they formed.

It was the time of day that the city began to populate with both street and foot traffic. The scene was a little less noisy than he was accustomed to though. Christmas had only just passed, and any good Londoner would have spent the prior evening partaking in jovial merrymaking; in this part of town, at least.

He thought about the East End, where he had formally introduced himself to Madame Angelina not even twenty-four hours ago. The people there would be working, going about their daily lives, and surviving as they always had. One may have relinquished this existence for a few hours to relax with the family, but afterward, business would resume as usual. But so many more would have celebrated alone or not at all. The whore he'd reaped as Madame's victim had been just turning in for the night, from what he'd gathered from his list. She would have spent the evening alone in her bed, attempting to get some shuteye before returning to the daily grind the next day. He both pitied and despised her existence and the existence of everyone else like her.

Ducking down a side street, breaking away from the commotion and hubbub of the daily goings on of London's bourgeoisie, Grell quickened his pace. He reached a spot where he was sure he was out of range of any stray eyes before he stopped.

He brought the picture into his mind, and in the blink of an eye, the atmosphere around him became charged, prickling his skin like tiny electric shocks. Almost instantly, it stopped, and when it did, he was gone from the human realm, feet firmly planted on the ground of another.

Before him, a thirteen-story, square building rose out of the ground. Grell had never thought to ask, but he assumed that the design was supposed to be symbolic. Many people thought the number thirteen was unlucky, and so perhaps it was more than fitting for a building in which the harbingers of death employed themselves. Aesthetically however, it displayed a very modern, clean cut, very timeless architecture resembling that of the German Bauhaus designers (2). To any human architect, it would have been seen as a testament to the quest for timelessness, the pinnacle of modernity. To Grell, it was just a boring white building that he'd known all his life.

He entered into the main lobby, heels clicking on the marble floor beneath his feet. He swept across the distance of the room in only a few strides. No one paid him much attention except the receptionist who curtly and politely nodded to everyone upon entering the building as stipulated in her job description. Grell didn't really see the point of her being there; she was a reaper, but she had never been in the field in her life. He was older than she and had been in collections since before she was born. He knew this to be fact.

Despite his opinion of her validity in the office, he passed her a quick, courteous wave and continued on his way.

Time in the reaper realm ran concurrent with the world of the living, so it was just about time for morning tea break when Grell arrived. Most of the administrative office employees milled about in the break areas or in the hallways, chatting idly and going about their day. Grell was scheduled to work in the field from afternoon into suppertime, and was expected to appear in the office prior to that to get his paper work together and to retrieve his list of the dead.

(3) How it worked in dispatch, was that a reaper had a set weekly schedule, and would arrive for those hours to work. However, death lists were generated manually using a database and organized into district, timeframe, and any other restrictions that might apply to the reaper it was being generated for. These lists were supposed to be ready for distribution an hour after the start of its recipient's shift. However, sometimes it took a little longer, but dispatchers were never left waiting for more than a half hour after the expected distribution time. Reapers were very efficient in their operations. They did not believe in wasting time.

He was a half-hour late arriving, but he might be able to save face if he could just avoid…

"Sutcliff." A flat, authoritative tone reverberated through the corridor.

Grell froze in the hallway just in front of the elevator, finding no need to turn around to know who was addressing him. After a moment though, he relaxed, the gears turning in his head as he quickly devised a little speech to schmooze his way out of the impending reprimand.

"Will, Darling, I was just looking for you. You'll never guess what…."

"Save it. I don't have time for your rubbish today. You're late, which means you need to fill out a late form." Will slipped a piece of paper out of the folder he was carrying and thrust it under Grell's nose. "I want it on my desk in no more than five minutes. I refuse to spend exorbitant amounts of time filling out unnecessary and avoidable paperwork on your behalf."

"I know you don't like it…"

"You know this, and yet you do this to me on a daily basis. Five minutes, or I will assign you a full report explaining _why _you were late and _why_ you were unable to hand in a simple late form in the time allotted. Are we clear on this matter?"

"Yes, but…"

"Five minutes."

Grell stared after the manager as he walked away toward the records department.

William T. Spears was a thorn in Grell's side. They had graduated from the reaper academy together, having been partners on the final exam. Even though Grell had shown outstanding performance in technique over William, who'd pulled through with only average marks, somehow, William had attained a higher position. He was one of several dispatch managers and Grell's immediate superior. It did not really bother the crimson reaper though. He liked William: as a friend and then some. Grell had an eye for handsome men, and William was one of the most handsome he knew. The man's frigid exterior did not detract from his appeal either. On the other hand, it made him all the more attractive.

Unfortunately, there was very little Grell could get away with under William's supervision, as his manager tended to be omnipotent in all matters concerning anyone with the surname Sutcliff. Grell did not immediately foresee this as a particularly troublesome variable in regards to Madame Angelina, but then, he had not yet done anything against reaper regulations… aside from revealing his and every other reaper's nature to her.

Grell quickly pressed the elevator button for the third floor and rode up to the payroll and scheduling office. He filled out the late form and quickly phased over to the dispatch department, entering William's office and placing the slip on his manager's desk. That was less than five minutes; let William try to make him write a report about that.

He then headed over to his own desk and pulled out a few blank "Incident" and "Special Case" forms, slipping them into a folder before heading over to the records department to get his list for the afternoon. It was standard procedure for a dispatcher to carry these forms on their person while in the field in case something happened, or that rare occasion occurred that a soul could be saved.

Grell felt slightly out of sorts, being in the office today. He could tell no one about Madame Angelina, and the things that he had planned went completely against reaper nature. This was not even a legal issue within the office, or a problem with code of conduct. This was wrong in every way, shape and form to the naturally neutral existence of all reapers, including Grell himself. It was not soul collection; what he was planning to engage in was murder, plain and simple. And because he was a reaper, there would be no souls collected. Everything about the victim would be destroyed. What made it all the worse was that it was murder by a being against which, no human could defend himself or herself, just as those undeveloped babies could not defend themselves against their own murderers. That was exactly why Grell saw this punishment as only fitting.

However, any reaper that did such a thing could find himself or herself locked away, charged with insanity, treason, and any number of other unappealing labels, or even put to death if the circumstances were grave enough.

Grell was fully aware of all of this. But like a rebellious teenager, it was living on the edge. He had a secret that he could divulge to no one, and it was a rush that he had not felt in all his years of existence, except perhaps during that first job he'd been sent on after the academy.

He had not done anything so grievous just yet though. Except for divulging his nature and the existence of his kind to Madame Angelina, he had no reason, at the moment, to be paranoid around his coworkers. Still it remained, a quiet nagging had begun to murmur in the back of his brain.

With that, he collected his list from the records office and returned to the human world under a guise of invisibility to begin his shift.

* * *

(1) I will be writing a one-shot story explaining a new take I have on the subject of reaper creation, and will be sticking to that as head canon for this story.

(2) The Bauhaus School did not come about until the 1919, so it's a little after this story's timeframe. HISTORY LESSON: The school was established in Weimar, Germany by the architect, Walter Gropius, and relocated to Dessau, and then Berlin before being run out of Germany by the Nazis in 1932. Hitler had a grudge against art, having been rejected from art school for not being good enough. What a misunderstood, little, diva! He sure showed those buckets of paint whose boss!

(3) My dad works for a company that does commercial pharmaceutical delivery. Basically what he does is deliver drugs to nursing homes, halfway houses and other institutions of that nature. I was trying to base reaper dispatch on what he's told me about how that works, since they're kind of similar concepts.


	4. Chapter 4: The Waiting Game

_Kuroshitsuji and all characters © Yana Toboso and SquareEnix_

* * *

Chapter 4: **The Waiting Game**

Grell visited with Angelina several times a week over the next couple of weeks. These visits ended up being no more than the casual exchanging of pleasantries and polite conversation over tea, but the two conspirators grew much more comfortable with each other as a result. Grell even allowed the lady to believe that they were equals in some sense, despite the fact that he came naturally from a higher order of being. But by the end of the third week of this, it began to feel like a routine, and he was beginning to grow weary of the monotony of it all. He itched to get to work. It was almost as if Angelina were dallying on purpose, trying to bore him so that he would give up their cause. She might have abandoned it already herself, but she never voiced this to him. Perhaps she had not been so sincere in her agreement as he had originally thought, and wanted him to leave. However, she showed nothing but friendliness and hospitality toward him during their visits, and he wanted to believe that she was not just stringing him along for fun. Without asking her directly though, he would never know.

"Madame, I must ask you something, and please be honest with me." He spoke softly, but his tone was solid.

Angelina looked back at him, a look of perplexed consternation contorting her lovely features.

"What is it, Grell?"

Grell flipped a stray chunk of hair over his shoulder and stepped just a few meters closer to her. He could not tell for certain, but he thought he noticed a passing expression of defensiveness cross her face. He was satisfied with this reaction, though he did not want to frighten her so much that she would go back on her loyalty, or panic and say something she did not mean. She might have done the latter already.

"Do you enjoy my company?"

She gave a light chuckle, and relaxed her shoulders a bit, seemingly relieved. "Of course I do. You don't see me having you thrown out of the house now, do you?"

"No." He quickly flitted his gaze to the floor, pausing dramatically, allowing for some suspense to manifest. "But I am here for a specific purpose, Madame, and for three weeks, you have yet to indulge me. I thought we had a plan."

"Patience, Grell," she said, her voice resolute. She was either truly unafraid of him, or she was doing a good job of hiding her anxiety. He had no way of knowing. "I know that you want to get out on the streets, but there has been no reason to go after anyone in the past weeks. There have been no patients to see me about that type of procedure since Christmas."

Grell gave her a weary sideways glance, adding a slight, impish grin so as to assure her of his understanding. In truth, he was exceptionally irritated. She was merely human. He was not so uncivilized that he could tolerate someone so inferior to his power and abilities dragging him around like a rag doll through the mud. If activity didn't pick up soon, he might have to kill her. She knew too much about him and his kind.

And yet, that was the last thing he wanted to do. She was a special kind of human in his eyes. She was not the average, frail rose petal like so many other human women he'd observed. There was a turbulent madness inside this one, and he wanted, no, _needed_, to see it.

Grell stared out the window for a moment, pondering, as Angelina, poured him another cup of tea.

"Have you told anyone about me?" he asked finally, a forefinger resting on his lower lip.

"No."

Her tone gave him all the information he needed. He knew then that he could trust her completely. Maybe he could leave her alive after all.

"Good."

He took the cup that she held out to him, and sipped it lightly as he returned his gaze toward the window. It was a particularly foggy winter day, so the sun remained concealed behind grey rain clouds.

"Grell?"

He turned his head to look at her.

"You know I would never betray your trust, as I trust that you would never betray mine?"

She had puffed herself up, like an animal communicating it's dominance over the other. How silly this woman was. It was almost endearing.

"Of course, Madame. You have no need to worry about me."

She nodded, understanding.

Grell finished his tea quickly and made his exit. "Well, thank you again for your hospitality Madame, but I must be off. Duty awaits." He headed for the foyer and grabbed his coat on the way.

"Of course. You've got important things to do. Don't let me keep you."

Angelina showed him out with a pleasant smile. Grell could not help but wonder what that face would look cold and dead and severed from its body. He passed it off as nothing but a silly fantasy though. He liked this woman too much, despite his frustration with her at the moment.

When the door was closed, he made his way to the alley and phased over to the reaper realm.

* * *

Grell did not go back to see Madame Angelina for almost three weeks. There was no reason to bother. She had not killed since Christmas, and to his observation, appeared to have no inclination to do so any time in the near future. In truth, he'd gotten tired of waiting, and had ultimately decided to release his hold on her; allow her get on with her life. He trusted that she would keep quiet about his existence, not that any sane human being would believe her if she didn't. For this reason, he felt it was safe to let her go quietly. She had proven her reliability, and gave him no reason to silence her. And so, she would escape with her life. Grell wondered if she knew just how lucky she was for that.

Despite the discontinued visitations, Grell continued to keep tabs on his friend, which is how he knew all of this. He could make himself invisible, and so was able to hide his presence from her. Yes, it may have been a little creepy that he spied on her at home and at work, but necessity demanded it. However, he checked in on her so seldom that at times he forgot about her and their intentions entirely.

By early February, he'd quite forgotten Madame Angelina. That is, until he smelled something rotten one morning while on duty at the hospital where she worked.

* * *

"Ciel? Is it really you, Ciel?"

Angelina was shocked and confused as she threw open the doors of one of the private patient rooms. She had not seen her nephew since before his birthday; that fateful day that changed everything. He had turned 10 on the 14th of December, but he'd disappeared that day. Her sister, Rachel, the boy's mother, had invited her over to celebrate not only her son's birthday, but also Angelina's recovery from her accident. She remembered the flames that engulfed the manor as her carriage had pulled up the drive that evening: angry, red, fury, of which she had never seen in her lifetime.

The bodies of Rachel and her husband, Vincent, were recovered from the ashes, but the body of their child was nowhere to be found. She had lost more than just her family that night. She had lost her one true love. But she had lost him long before he died.

"So you were alive all along?" she asked, closing the doors behind her. Her voice grew less frantic the closer she drew.

In front of the large window, a small, fragile looking boy with dark hair sat in a chair, one eye covered with bandages. She thought she she would never see him again, much less in this hospital. Beside him stood a tall, handsome, raven-haired man in a black tailcoat.

"I'm so glad. At least you survived."

She put her hands on each side of his face, tilting it up toward hers.

"Come. Let me get a better look at you."

The boy never said a word. His face was so similar to Rachel's, but he reminded her so much of the man she had loved.

All of the emotions she had tried so desperately to suppress since the fire came flooding back to her. It felt as though the world had come crashing down upon her again, but with ten times the force, hitting her in the chest like a sack of bricks.

It wasn't fair. Everything. Her sister had married the only man Angelina had ever truly loved. At first, she had tricked herself into thinking she could be happy for them, but after the fire, all she felt was deep-seeded jealousy and loathing. Vincent was dead, and her sister had gotten to die with him. It was both tragic and romantic. Angelina despised her sister for it, considered her lucky even, that she had been afforded such courtesy. Angelina had not been so lucky.

One afternoon, she and her husband had gone out shopping for things they would need for their expectant child, when a runaway carriage had hit them as they crossed the street. Her husband had been killed instantly. As for Angelina, she lost the child and her ability to have any more children. Until Rachel and Vincent's death, she had not thought that her life could fall any further into disrepair.

Now, her nephew, the only survivor of the fire, had returned. He did not seem real. It was almost as if he were a phantom returned from the dead.

"Ciel, what happened?"

The boy shook his head.

"Please, tell me. I want to help."

"There's nothing you can do," said Ciel, slowly. "What's done is done." His voice was so frail and meager that she barely heard him.

Angelina took the boy in her arms and held him close in a tight embrace. The man in the tailcoat gently laid a hand on her arm.

"Madame," he said with a smooth, seductive voice. "The young master has had a very long and trying day. He would very much appreciate it if you allowed him to rest."

"Excuse me," she said, defensively inflating herself as best she could. "This boy is my nephew, and I have not seen him in over three months. I think he can abide a short visit with his Auntie Anne."

The man looked to the boy, and the boy nodded slowly.

Angelina visited with Ciel and his new butler for another quarter of an hour or so. She continued to pester him about his whereabouts over the past couple of months, but he revealed nothing. Eventually, conversation turned to prospects about the future. Angelina tried to be optimistic, but Ciel would not hear any of it. It was like the light he carried inside as a child had been put out, and now there was nothing but darkness. Something terrible had happened to him, and she would find out even if it killed her. But not now. He'd already made it quite clear that now was neither the time nor the place.


	5. Chapter 5: Reunion

_Kuroshitsuji and all characters © Yana Toboso and SquareEnix_

* * *

**Chapter 5: Reunion**

"Help!"

The man's frantic and pained cries echoed down the corridor. "Help! Somebody please!"

Invisible, Grell stayed against the wall as a pack of nurses and doctors rushed past, nearly trampling him. They were wasting their energy. His job was done; there was nothing they could do.

Once the way had cleared, Grell stepped away from the wall and continued his journey down the corridor. But before he could take another step, he felt something brush lightly against his arm. He watched as a blotch of red streaked past and disappeared around the corner ahead of him.

Grell stopped dead, almost choking when he realized whom he had just seen. He had completely forgotten about Madame Red! He might have wondered about his friend's well being since the last time he'd checked on her, if not for the more prominent and apprehensive notion that immediately occurred to him regarding his own carelessness. Grell's evasion from scrutiny and punishment by his superiors depended on her silence, and that required meticulous observation, on his part, of her whereabouts and activities. He may have seemed a fool to some of the others in the office, but he was far from it. He was sharp as a tack, and more calculating and conniving than anyone. But this was a gaffe for which he could not forgive himself.

As soon as the initial surprise of seeing Madame Angelina again had worn off, he was on the move. Naturally, he followed her, careful to keep his presence unnoticed. When she disappeared through a set of double doors, he teleported into the room after her, and quickly obscured himself within the shadows of a particularly dark corner. He watched the scene unfolded before him; the frail little boy, reunited with his protective, doting auntie, as a tall, handsome, raven-haired butler watched even more protectively from above.

Grell had been in the room no longer than a minute when he noticed that the air was permeated with a strong, unidentifiable odor. He had never smelled anything like it before. It was not a bad smell, but it was not a particularly attractive smell either. Reminiscent of flowers, he was sure that there was some other, much fouler, scent concealed within this unidentifiable, mixture of aromas.

Grell studied the child for a moment. One eye was covered in a bandage, and though his body looked weak, there was an air of great distinction and power about his person. However, the much more intriguing character in the room was the butler. Though the man did not move or make any comment, he stood straight as an arrow with a great sense of dignity. He watched Madame Red with great scrutiny as she interacted with the boy. When this man looked at the boy, he did so almost hungrily. Perhaps the servant was more in control than the master. Whatever the circumstance, Grell knew for certain, that this man was no normal human. The smell in the room was confirmation of that observation.

He should have felt the extreme desire to alert the reaper officials of this new development. In fact, it was his obligation and duty as a reaper, to bring this to the attention of the proper authorities to have it dealt with. A few months ago, Grell would never have hesitated. But now there was a conflict of interest standing in the middle of the room, exceptionally concerned for the well being of this young boy. Grell unquestionably intended to reinstate his and Madame's plans for homicidal payback, and going to the higher-ups would only put him at risk of getting caught. What was he doing in that room to begin with? Why did he not leave the hospital as soon as he had collected Mrs. Margaret Thesh's soul? These were the kinds of questions he would be asked if he reported this, and unless he could thoroughly explain himself, there would be an inquest into his recent activities. He just didn't want to expend the energy to create a lie bigger than the one he was already living. He was breaking the law, even now, and he had broken so many more already. What was one more minor slip up? If the other reapers found out about this strange character in their own time, fine. He was going to do nothing about it. In fact, he was going to act as if he knew nothing.

Though, he did have to laugh; the way Madame Red stuck out her chest to the non-human butler as she had done to him the last time he'd visited… it was too cute. This woman was so utterly oblivious, he almost felt bad for taking advantage of her. Almost.

He observed the reunion, hidden in the shadows for twenty or so minutes, while Madame Red drilled the boy about how and where he had been for the last few months, and making suggestions for the future now that he had returned when he'd refused to answer any questions relating to the former topic. Grell saw a caring side of Madame Angelina that day that he had not witnessed before, and it felt genuine. She definitely had the mother's touch. However, he had a sneaking suspicion that there was some other part of her —a violent and sadistic part— that loathed the child completely. She might have had good reason to hate him, or perhaps it was the result of her hatred for the world, and the boy was simply caught in that web. Either way, Grell had no way of knowing, and he did not know anything about this child or the circumstances that brought him to this hospital on this day. But he could sense that there was some discord between the woman and her nephew.

When the visit had concluded, Madame Red, feeling obligated to look after the boy, accompanied him and the butler home. Grell could not follow them, despite his yearning to learn more about this boy and his mysterious servant. Much to his dismay, he was required to be on duty until mid-afternoon.

When his shift had ended, Grell returned to the office to turn in the completed death list. Now, with nothing to keep him further occupied for the rest of the day, his thoughts returned to Madame Red. He desperately wished to catch up with her, but did not want to run straight back and seem desperate. He needed to figure out how he was going to approach this situation, seeing as they'd been quite out of touch for so long. Being the dramatist that he was, the entrance had to be perfect.

* * *

Again, Angelina's morals had come to a crossroads. That woman… under obligation of oath and the hospital's medical code, she was required to do as the patient pleased. She hadn't wanted to though. That poor innocent child that had been growing there, the life that the woman had forced her to take…

Angelina was overwhelmed with grief, jealousy, hatred… most of all the hatred. It came bubbling up and exploding out of her again like a geyser. The blood that was now on her hands —the blood of another innocent— and the completely justified blood that would be on her hands as soon as she tracked the monstrous thing down... It had to be destroyed. It had to be stopped before it consumed and purged yet another innocent life from the world. It didn't matter; it wasn't human. No human would do that. No human could be so cold and heartless, taking a life that wasn't hers, destroying it before it even knew what it meant to be alive.

When she returned home that evening, a quite unexpected visitor was there to greet her. She noticed him from the street, sitting cross-legged on the dead windowsill garden, and as soon as she reached the front walk, he hopped down and landed deftly before her. She did not allow him to speak first.

"Good evening Mr. Sutcliff. I do hope that you have been faring well?"

"Madame," he said, almost paternally, "you are distraught again. Please let me help you."

"I am not distraught, I am perfectly fine." She did not want to talk about this right now, especially not outside.

She entered the house and he followed. He kept his distance as she removed her jacket. She then turned to face him.

"Madame, there is blood on your shirt."

She did not answer him, but made her way to the staircase, descending it in haste. He appeared before her at the top of the stairs.

"Madame, please do not ignore me. Let me back in. I apologize for losing touch with you, but I'd really like to be part of your scheme again."

She looked at him for a moment, disbelieving. She threw her hands in the air. "There is no scheme, Grell! It was never a scheme! You made it one when you came up to me making indecent proposals. This 'plan,' it's all in your head. I never had a plan! It just happened!" She paused then, taking a deep breath and sighing harshly to calm herself. Grell sat on the banister, studying her. "There is no reasoning for my madness. I can't control it."

She quickly brushed past him and walked away. He said nothing, but followed her to the bedroom where she removed the evidence of her last heinous crime. She needed to calm down before she spoke to him again about this. Now was not the time. She was too worked up and needed to collect herself before she either enraged him or embarrassed herself.

* * *

Grell assisted Madame Angelina in removing the bloodstains from her clothing. She had decided to take a short bath, more than likely to let her craze simmer, as she'd done the day they met, and so he sat on her four poster bed, scrubbing the garment with a brush. When he was done, he went to the basement to hang the more soiled articles over a line to dry. He returned to the room to find Madame Angelina already there, and still in her bathrobe.

"I learned just yesterday, that your nephew has been found?"

He wanted to know any and all details involving her relationship with this child, and if it was any call for concern, or if he could use her emotional attachment to the boy to his advantage. Although he was more interested in that butler, from what he had observed in the hospital, he judged that Madame Angelina had never been acquainted with him before that time.

Madame Red let out a weary sigh. "Yes. I have not seen him since the beginning of December. I thought he was dead. Someone or some group of people who have yet to be identified burned the family's manor to the ground. My sister and her… husband were found dead, but my nephew's body was never found."

"Husband?" Grell had not failed to notice the way she had paused at that word.

She simply looked at him, her eyes wide like saucers. Clearly taken off guard by the inquiry, it took a moment before she spoke.

"Yes, well, he… I… I used to be in love with him —I _am_ still in love with him— and… but my sister… he liked her better."

"You never forgave her for that, did you, Madame?"

She said nothing for a long while. There had to be more delicious details to this tale. Perhaps it was her trigger, the key to gaining back her allegiance. He waited patiently for her answer. It was clear she was struggling with her emotions.

"No. I didn't."

"And then to make matters worse, she birthed a little brat that took even more of his attention away from you."

Suddenly, she was extremely defensive. "That is my nephew, you're talking about!"

_Better watch your tone, Madame. _"My apologies, Madame. I meant no offense," he replied calmly, trying to save face. "I was merely trying to understand your feelings on the matter."

"I love him, Grell. He is the only family I have left. And as much jealousy and contempt as I, even to this day, harbor for my sister and her husband, and the way it all turned out, I still love them. They are still my family, and he is their child. If I can't have all of them, I am at least grateful that Ciel has come back to me."

He was beginning to tire of this story. She was beginning to sound like just another plain, boring woman.

"I'm just worried about him. He seems more distant, colder in a way. Like his soul has been crushed or destroyed. I'm sure it has to do with where he was for the last two and a half months, but he won't tell me anything. He won't let me in so that I can help him. And what's worse, I think he might want to take his father's place as the Queen's royal watchdog."

Grell's attention, which had been significantly drifting, instantly returned.

"What do you mean, 'royal watchdog'?"

"The Phantomhives have policed the underworld for the crown for generations. No doubt he feels some kind of responsibility to carry out that legacy. He seems so much older now, than a normal ten-year-old. I think he feels that now he's on his own, he must act like an adult. Not to mention he is now the head of the Phantomhive household."

"Madame, do you not see a problem with this? Your nephew could potentially have you locked away." _And blow my cover as well._

"Relax, Grell. He's just a child. There's no way he'll be taking up that role any time soon. He's only ten."

That did not help to put Grell's mind at ease. On the contrary, children are the last people one should underestimate. They see the world in a different way than adults. This new development could be potentially disastrous to his schemes. Despite his concerns, he remained collected before Madame.

"Do you know anything about that butler of his?" he queried, changing the subject.

"No. I've never seen him before in my life."

"Hmm…" Grell put a finger to his bottom lip. This was something else, probably a little more pressing at the moment he should probably be concerned with, at least in regards to his existence as a reaper.

"What's wrong?" She looked genuinely concerned as she fiddled with a pair of old spectacles that had been sitting on the bureau.

"I'm worried. That butler isn't human."

"He's not?"

"No."

"So he's like you?"

Grell gave a lighthearted chuckle. "No no, Madame. Reapers are not the only kind of supernatural beings in this universe. Besides, if he were like me, I would have seen him before. Especially if he is English."

"I see…"

"Although I should turn this in to the authorities, I don't want to bring this up to them. That will probably only stir up trouble on my end. Wouldn't want any of those nosy higher-ups to come poking around asking questions."

"Well what is he then? Should I be concerned for my nephew's sake?"

"Madame, it would be of great concern should a human team up with any supernatural being. Our case included."

"But I trust you."

"Yes. So you do. And I, you. But we need to be careful around this one. He could be much more dangerous than we think, especially since I don't know what he is."

They sat in silence for a moment, Madame still fiddling with the spectacles.

"Perhaps you should stay here if you're that worried about the new Phantomhive butler. You can protect me."

"Protect you? How could I even do that if I don't know what we're dealing with?"

"I'm not sure, but it would make me feel better. Especially if I need to protect my nephew."

"Madame, I am not here to babysit. I am here to assist you with your revenge."

She stared down at the spectacles in her hands for another few moments before returning her stare to him. Then her expression lit up and she waved the spectacles in the air.

"Hey! I know! You can pretend to be _my_ butler, and that way we can work together _and _keep an eye on Ciel and his butler. I will need to keep up appearances, and if you're here, you can work behind the scenes like you mentioned so long ago. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Grell thought about this proposition for a moment. It might look odd if he spent too much time in the human world. Though, nobody, except William, paid much attention to where he spent his free time. As long as he showed up for his shifts when he was supposed to, he might be able to make it work. Perhaps he should spend a night in the reaper realm every once in a while too, just to keep up his own appearances. He really did not want to get involved with this little brat and his mysterious butler, but it appeared that it could not be avoided. It merely meant that he would have to be on his toes at all times. Which he knew would get rather tiring after a while.

"Alright, Madame. You've convinced me. I'll be your partner in crime until all the filth has been cleansed from this city."

* * *

_Well folks, enjoy the calm, because the storm is surely coming. It only gets more violent and explicit from here on out. This story has a mature rating for a reason._


	6. Chapter 6: Closer

_Kuroshitsuji and all characters © Yana Toboso and SquareEnix_

_PLEASE READ THIS FIRST. _

_Certain fans may not agree with how Grell is portrayed in this chapter. Here, I have written him as being predominantly male. __**I will not be arguing with anyone about this.**__ Nor will I explain or apologize. There are enough details within the text to explain why I have written him this way._

_THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING._

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Chapter 6: **Closer**

Angelina's late husband had only needed glasses for reading, so people were often surprised to see him wearing them on the occasion that he actually did so around guests or in public. After he had died, Angelina had set to cleaning up his things, but she hadn't put the spectacles away for some reason. They had been sitting, unnoticed, on the bureau for the last three months, but now she had them in her hands, absentmindedly fiddling with them as troubling thoughts of Ciel and his butler, Sebastian —she had learned the mysterious man's name while accompanying the pair back to the manor— pressed her brain. Grell did nothing to ease her worries. He was completely unwilling to help her situation, but then she shouldn't have expected so much from him to begin with. After all, what was Ciel to him? His refusal to assist her in looking after her nephew should not have been a surprise. Nonetheless, she needed to sort the situation, and she didn't want to do it alone, especially if Sebastian were actually dangerous.

On a different note, Grell had not been completely out of line when he'd referred to Ciel as a "little brat." She had sometimes felt partial to that term herself, as she still held some amount of contempt for the boy even on this day of his miraculous return. Deep in her heart, she felt extremely confused and conflicted about her newphew. Had she married Vincent in her sister's stead, Ciel would be _her_ son and not Rachel's. The remark Grell made had taken her off guard, which is why she had been so quick to spit a harsh reply. However, every time she thought ill of the young earl, she immediately regretted it. In the end, Angelina didn't think that she could ever truly _hate_ her nephew. His parentage was neither his fault nor choosing. It was her fault for not acting when she'd had the chance. She was overjoyed that he had returned and was safe once again, but he was living alone in that manor with only his butler to care for him. He needed a parental figure there to guide him; to give him the love and attention every child his age required. She was not his mother. She never would be. There was always going to be a distance between them, especially if Ciel refused to let her in, and she suspected he never would.

She knew what had to be done, but she did not want to dive into uncharted waters without a lifeboat. If Grell wanted his way, he would stay and keep her afloat. She needed a plan. She needed some make him stay.

Angelina slowly turned her gaze from the pair of glasses in her hands, back to Grell, who sat on her bed, brows knit in a quizzical expression. His eyes were quite pretty, she had not even noticed before, and they peeked out from behind is red-framed glasses.

"Hey! I know!" she exclaimed, waving the spectacles in the air. "You can pretend to be _my_ butler, and that way we can work together _and_ keep an eye on Ciel and _his_ butler. I will need to keep up appearances, and if you're here, you can work behind the scenes like you mentioned so long ago. Isn't that what you wanted?"

She studied him from across the room as he pondered the prospect. Surely he would take her offer. Then they could both have what they wanted. She had killed, yes, but did she want to kill again? Not really. Would she kill again? More than likely. Grell was so anxious to hit the streets and smear some blood; surely this was an offer he couldn't refuse.

"Alright, Madame. You've convinced me. I'll be your partner in crime until all the filth has been cleansed from this city."

"Perfect," she said, crossing the room and reaching for his glasses. "Now, we need to work on your disguise."

She carefully removed his red frames —she was a bit surprised that he let her do so without protest— and put them on the bedside table, folding them delicately and making sure not to scratch the lenses. Then she placed the other pair on his face.

"You look different already!" she chirped.

Grell blinked a few times. "Yes, but… now I can't see."

"Oh? I thought you just needed them for reading. You wear yours low on your nose and are always looking over top of them."

"No. Most of us reapers are horrendously shortsighted."

"Oh, I'm so sorry then. Here…" she handed his glasses back to him.

"Thank you. But I will take these and fix them if you think it will help my disguise."

"Sure, that would be lovely."

Grell pocketed the round spectacles and put his red ones back on.

"What can we do to make you look more human then? Most people don't have jagged teeth like yours."

"It has taken me years to perfect this look. I can easily change anything I want. See?"

He grinned at her, and much to her surprise, a perfectly straight set of teeth gleamed back at her. "And the hair?" he continued. "How about blonde?"

Before Angelina even had time to blink, a skinny man with platinum blonde hair and red glasses had appeared on her bed. She chuckled.

"I don't think so. It's too… I don't know… too much."

"This then?" A light, muddy shade of brown flowed from root to tip, and instantly, he became a brunette.

"I like that much better. Now, about the length…"

"Ah," he said curtly, throwing a finger into the air. "That is one thing I will not do."

"You can change the color of your hair and the shape of your teeth, but you can't grow it or shorten it on command?"

"I can, but I'd rather not. I am proud of the length. I will agree to tying it back, but that's it."

"Fine. Here, use this." She went to the wardrobe and procured a red hair ribbon from the back; one she had worn quite often before her "transformation". "I think that will work very nicely."

Grell stood, looking like a completely different person from the slightly nutty reaper he had been only a few minutes before, and walked over to the mirror in the corner.

"Yes, I agree," he said, turning and inspecting his new appearance.

"I'm afraid I don't have any clothing befitting a butler of your unique variety. However, I really don't think you need them. What you've got on right now looks fine."

"Some white gloves instead, perhaps. I have some at home."

Angelina appeared behind him, observing his new identity in the mirror. Grell did not even look like himself anymore. If not for those strange, yet captivating, green eyes, she would never have even recognized him. He examined himself for a moment then removed his glasses, replacing them with the rounded pair she had wanted him to wear originally. She grinned in satisfaction.

"Perfect."

He gave his reflection a curt nod of satisfaction, and turned to face her.

"O-oh yes, I must agree with you Madame. If you are happy, then, so am I." His voice was more high-pitched than usual, and his exaggerated, almost-poetic eloquence of tone, curtailed. "Is there anything… anything at all I can get you? I'm afraid I'm not the best servant you could have hired, b-but I will do my best to please Madame."

Oh he was good. An inept butler who was terrible at everything? No one would ever suspect that a violent, bloodthirsty death god was behind the charade.

"Yes," she said, playing along, a smirk playing across her lips, "fetch me my housecoat."

"Of course, Madame."

Grell took a few steps before suddenly stumbling on the carpet. So he was playing clumsy as well? She could not deny that this disguise was perfect in every way.

He found her housecoat in the wardrobe and helped her into it. She caught his gaze in the mirror, noticing that his sharp teeth had returned, revealed in a wickedly devilish smile. She returned the smile to his reflection in the mirror.

* * *

Grell felt as dull as a cobblestone in Hyde Park and yet, he could not have been more pleased with himself. Surely no one, not even another reaper, would recognize him, that is, if perchance such paths happened to cross.

The character quickly began to emerge. He was timid, shy, and unsure of himself. In fact, he was a rather spineless coward. The only desire of his meager and worthless existence was to make his master, happy. Unfortunately, he found this aspiration to be near impossible to fulfill, due to the fact that he was utterly horrible at everything.

"Fetch me my housecoat," she'd ordered, playing along with his act, becoming her own character in the process. He had obliged, taking a few steps before tripping over his own feet due to his inability to see wearing the large spectacles Madame had given him. He had not originally been going for clumsy, but he supposed it made sense that ineptitude was a trait of this character too. Sometimes character development was unplanned and happened sporadically on its own.

He would not be able to wear makeup of course, which was a downside to this disguise, but he would get used to it. Perhaps having one less thing to worry about in the morning was a good thing. But oh, if a gorgeous, hunky man, or one of his colleagues saw him without makeup, whether his true identity were apparent or not, he might just die of embarrassment.

Later on, once again looking like his normal self, Madame Red showed him to the guest room, and bid him do anything he wished to make it more suitable to his tastes. A quick scan of the area did not reveal much that needed improving; it was just a room, and he had his own back in the reaper realm. Though, it probably could have used a little more red around the edges. Then again, what couldn't be improved with just a little red paint? Once she'd bade him good night, and left him on his own, he realized just how tired he actually was, and prepared himself for his first night in Madame Red's home.

He found some men's pajamas in a dresser drawer and was surprised to find how well they fit. Grell had been asleep for nearly two hours before he was disturbed by a soft sound on the other side of the room. Being that he was in a strange new place, he found it difficult to completely shut down the way he normally did when he slept. Many nights, he slept a full eight hours and this was not only because he believed in beauty rest for the skin's benefit. Grell was an extremely heavy sleeper. So heavy, in fact, that he oftentimes stopped breathing, giving meaning to the phrase, "sleeps like the dead." He would probably sleep through the world's sudden destruction and be none the wiser.

However, Grell was on alert tonight in this unfamiliar room. He opened his eyes, looking toward what he thought was the door, though he could not be certain between his poor vision and the shadowy darkness of the nighttime.

"Hello?" he whispered into the dark.

"Grell?" it was Madame. She whispered back. "I do hope I am not disturbing you."

"I was asleep. Is something wrong?"

He could hear footfalls across the carpet of the amorphous, blurry, blob that approached the bed. Its shape shifted and changed as it sat down, and he felt the edge of the mattress bend under the weight.

"Nothing is wrong Grell. It's just… it's strange for me, having someone else in the house at night. I've been alone here since my husband died, you know."

Grell said nothing, as he squinted through the blurred darkness at her. He reached for his glasses on the night table, but she grabbed his wrist before he could reach them.

"Can I ask you a question?"

_Why do women always want to talk when it's time to sleep?_ He mused, remembering several past experiences.

He hesitated for a moment. "Okay. Sure."

Grell heard her let out a long, restrained sigh. "I remember you saying that you don't fancy the company of women, but… have you ever been with one before?"

_This is getting rather uncomfortable._ He could see where this conversation was going. If this were the reason she'd asked him to stay at her house, he would not be staying the night ever again.

"Yes. That is how I know I don't like them."

There was a long pause as she shifted. Suddenly, he felt something snaking its way over the covers up his torso, and coming to rest, depressing the pillow beside his head. A weight was on him, and he could feel her breath, hot on his face.

"So you know how it works then?"

Grell sighed, breathing directly back into her face. She recoiled slightly.

"Of course, I do Madame. But I am not interested in doing that with you. I am very tired and…"

"Look," she said, throwing her weight completely across him, "I am not suggesting that we have an affair. I am frustrated. My husband died over three months ago, and before that, I had been pregnant for four. Since that time, I have been viciously mutilated and my heart crushed over and over again. I merely need a release."

What she was proposing sounded like something he could get into, but he couldn't. It was his first official night in her home; surely there was some social convention that prohibited this type of behavior?

"I did not intend to do this. I never wanted you to stay with me for this reason, and you must know that I speak the truth when I say that. But knowing that you were just down the hall… it got me thinking. You are a man, and I am a woman. It's simple biology. I'm only asking that you indulge me this one night. I know you prefer men, but can't you do this for me, just this once?" She rested a hand on his cheek and slowly brushed her fingers through his hair. He could not see very well without his glasses, and the darkness added to his blindness; perhaps he could just pretend? Though, once he thought about it, Madame Red was a rather beautiful woman with a spirit like a lion, and he had first been attracted to her for that reason alone. He was not keen on the softness or the curves of a woman's body, and the female creature was always so delicate. Madame, on the other hand, sounded like she wanted to tear him up. Perhaps she would be rougher than the others. He preferred it that way anyway. He was attracted to her as a person. It had never been a sexual attraction. Perhaps if he allowed her this one pleasure, he might find it within him to like her that way as well. He was her butler after all. His only desire was to make his master happy.

"Grell…" he felt a brush of skin against the side of his face, and he could smell her hair. Her arm wrapped around his neck as her lips bit at his ear.

He couldn't do this. Her circumstance was pitiable, yes, and the part of him that pitied her wanted to do it for that reason alone. She had been alone for so long, and so much taken from her, the knowledge of these things affected something deep within him. However, not only was he not interested in women, but she was a human and he a reaper. There were other things that went along with that difference in brood. Reapers were so much stronger than humans. What if he hurt her, or worse? That would be difficult to explain to William or any member of upper management.

Oh! William… he felt something inside him go numb in a deliciously fantastic and anticipatory way.

It wasn't like she was one of those faceless prostitutes that she so enjoyed mutilating. Madame Red was a noblewoman. Her disappearance would not go unnoticed by the human authorities either.

"Men have been shocked at the things I know. 'But you're such a refined lady!' they would say." She whispered softly into his ear. "I am no lady. I don't even have the parts to be a lady anymore."

Madame lifted the blankets and slid underneath with him. She began at the top, unbuttoning his nightshirt, kissing down his torso as she went.

"I see you found my husband's old pajamas," she whispered. "You'll never replace him, or the man that he replaced, but in this department…" she gave a meaningful glance downward toward his groin, "I think you'll do just fine."

Oddly enough, Angelina's morbid sweet-talk was working. Grell found himself weaving his fingers through her hair, little to his control. What was he doing? Was he actually getting satisfaction out of this? She continued kissing his body all over, but now she was trailing her sweet sentiments back toward his collarbone. As she slid up his body, his hands caressed her back, removing the housecoat as they went. Underneath, she wore a very thin, very delicate, silk nightgown.

Through the darkness, her lips found his and at that moment, he no longer cared who or what Madame Red was. She had succeeded in turning him on full blast, and now she would have to live with the consequences of her actions.

Grell rolled her onto her back and straddled her, taking his shirt the rest of the way off and throwing it onto the floor. His hair hung around her face as he slowly, tantalizingly, bent down to kiss her again. But without warning, she grabbed him around the waist and threw him to the other side of the bed, leaving scratches across his skin from her nails. He hissed in response, but savored the sting. She crawled over to him, to his legs, and grabbed the waistband of his pants, violently tearing them off around his ankles. He heard an evil laugh from the foot of the bed, and her weight pressed down on him, her lips again, suddenly on his.

How was she overpowering him? He wasn't allowing her to have this kind of control right now. Grell needed to show her who was in charge of this little game they were playing.

He pushed her off of him, and threw her backward to the foot of the bed. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he playfully scowled, then crawled to her. He began biting her anywhere he could. This was not playtime; he was hungry and he wanted blood. He couldn't see and couldn't tell where he was, but it didn't matter. Grell heard Angelina yelp on several occasions, but she never pushed him away. Instead, she grabbed his hair, repositioning his head. Rubbing his nose against her, and hearing the way she moaned, he knew now where he was. But he wasn't a savage. Biting down there was uncivilized and not really his thing.

Instead, he brought himself up to a kneel, gripping her around the waist, digging in with his fingertips to keep her still. She leaned up, grabbing him around the neck and pulling him down hard on top of her. The silk nightgown was still between them, and it felt cool and sensual against his sweating skin. He couldn't seem to be able to find the hem. Instead, he put his hands on each of her thighs and ran them up her body until the nightgown was bunched around her waist. Now was his moment. Oh, but how much easier it would have been if he could actually fucking see!

Suddenly, he felt the cool grip of fingers around him, guiding him to where he needed to be. She was more than ready for him as he plunged into her, destroying what little of her propriety that remained, feeling her from the inside and out.

It was an animalistic display. She rose up, and he pushed her back down, growling. She punched him in the shoulder —she knew better than to aim for the face— and he bit her breast. She clawed his arms, and he twined his fingers around her neck. He was the man. She had said that, hadn't she? He would put her in her place. She fought against him, but he fought back harder, both cackling all the while. Finally, after they'd struggled against each other for a good while, neither one agreeing with the other's pace, he slammed into her harder than he had yet, and she cried out in a wonderful melody of pleasure and pain. This caused her to finally submit to Grell's whims, and she met his rhythm, their two bodies shaking until she hitched underneath him crying out in ecstasy. He found his own release, much more quietly than she had, a moment later, and then fell on top of her.

They both lay there for a few moments afterward, breathing into each other's necks. Madame Red's head hung off the foot of the bed, her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers twisted in his hair. They were both perspiring as he felt her breasts rise and fall, pressing against his body with ragged breathing as his chest expanded and contracted against them.

He had not expected to find such a cathartic, spiritual experience with this woman. She had such a strong passion, he had known it since the first time he'd seen her. She was skilled with a knife and, as it turned out, other instruments as well. Grell did not make it a habit to sleep around, but he'd been with many others before her —as he was not too far past one hundred years old— and he could say with clarity that she was probably one of the best. He preferred other reapers, but he had, on occasion, seduced a human or two on a whim for a bit of fun. This had been fun too, but in a completely different way that afterward, left him reeling with sentiment and emotion. He didn't want it to be true, but he thought, perhaps, he was actually developing feelings for this woman. She was very rough, how men usually were with him, and it was just how he liked it. But she was so much more than that, and he'd known it from the beginning. It would take him more searching to find her, but the killer would show her glorious crimson head sooner or later. Grell had felt her here tonight. It was only a matter of time before she came out of hiding for real. He was tired of her running back into that hiding place of denial every time she'd done something great.

Rolling off of her, Grell fell onto his back beside her, his breathing now more under control. Once her breathing had calmed as well, she rolled onto her side, and gently laid her cheek on his shoulder.

She truly was an amazing woman, Madame Red. He suddenly felt ashamed that he had doubted her, even for a second.

* * *

NIN, Closer – if it weren't already apparent that that song was playing in my head while writing this. I'm a sick individual.


	7. Chapter 7: The New Rembrandt

_Kuroshitsuji and all characters © Yana Toboso and SquareEnix._

_NOTE: I have been using the Casebook: Jack the Ripper website for my research for this story. If there is other information that is more accurate somewhere else, I don't know, but this website seems pretty legitimate and accurate to me. I am taking liberties with descriptions of some of the non-canon victims, as it appears the one I chose to pick off in this chapter —as well as a few others— was not actually killed by anyone, but in February of 1888, was attacked and stabbed in the lower body by a man she did not know and was later admitted to the Whitechapel Workhouse infirmary. (According to this website) She was released about a month later and then ten days after that, died of a ruptured pulmonary artery (natural causes) unrelated to her previous attack._

_Just thought I'd let you know I was doing this, because after reading this particular victim's short little bio on that site, it seemed kind of lame to have her just get away. Plus I planned for this scene… and so help me, I was going to make it happen!_

* * *

Chapter 7: **The New Rembrandt**

It had been two years since Grell and Angelina had consummated their pact. For Grell, who was usually the one playing the female lead in the bedroom, Madame Red became his one, glorious exception. He found himself pleasantly confused by the situation, and did not care to question it. She was beautiful and wonderful in every way imaginable and, even despite her womanly curves and her humanity, their compatibility as lovers was undeniable; that much, they each knew.

That first nighttime fling had led to another romp about a week later, another a few days after that and eventually became habit. Neither of them would necessarily have called it love, not in the purest, deepest and most intimate sense at least, but the inferno in the bed was ablaze and unyielding. Their connection was as strong as any married couple, but without the puppet strings. They were perfect for each other. In each of their minds, it only made sense. Grell could never replace Angelina's husband or Vincent, and he knew that. He wouldn't have wanted to. Grell could never provide Angelina with the baby she had lost or wanted so desperately, despite her inability to do so, and she knew that. But where one lacked in ability or usefulness, the other provided, and the frustrations they exchanged were diverted into much needed and gratifying pleasure.

But they were also compatible as accomplices. Grell spent time daily in the reaper realm to keep up appearances among his kind, as did he spend enough time with Madame Red, playing the role of Grelle Sutcliff, butler of Angelina Durless of the Burnett household, so that she could keep up her own appearances in London's high society. Nobody, neither reaper nor human, suspected a thing. To most of Angelina's human acquaintances, Grell was merely an incompetent, clumsy, china-breaking servant, and it was a wonder she bothered to put up with his nonsense. But Angelina played the ever-intimidating, and spiteful master, displaying her rule over his position through sharp reprimands and fuming over his constant insolence. She delighted in bossing him around, even if it was only pretend, for if she were to seriously punish him, he would likely not abide the behavior without retaliation. He would comply unwittingly to her demands though, stuttering, usually making a bigger mess in the process of tidying the original. Grell had modified the glasses so that they were useful to him, but he kept the clumsy attribute to his character. He enjoyed their charade though. He could break strangers' things and they never knew he was doing it on purpose.

A few women had turned up dead in Whitechapel from February 1986 to December 1887, but mostly it passed under the Yard's radar. Due to the commonality of dead prostitutes in the area, it was an issue left mostly uninvestigated. Prostitution was a dangerous business. Most women knew that going into the profession. Patrons could be easily displeased, or perhaps appeared looking for an outlet in the form of meaningless fornication from the start, and beat his investment to death afterward for fun. It was a commonplace phenomenon in Whitechapel, and the Yard did not have the time or resources to stop all of it, so they mostly turned a blind eye and cleaned up the mess afterward without dispute.

However, the duo had been responsible for only a few of these cases. There had never been evidence enough to raise suspicion of a serial murderer in the area, especially not one with a particular modus operandi. In truth, it was just as it had been in the beginning when Angelina had not had reason to hunt any victims, except that now, Grell was much more patient and willing to wait for action. Madame Red's friendship was much more valuable for much different reasons now. Even though they were now a duo, Madame Red was responsible for all of the deaths, while Grell simply advised and observed. He so enjoyed watching Angelina work that he would regret it if he were to get in her way. Watching the madness take hold of her and change her into a completely different person was mesmerizing.

The women she killed were always on his death list. He would leave her to it, as if she were an unchained German Shepard, and reap the souls afterward. In this way, he was also free from suspicion from the other reapers. They only needed the completed record and any accompanying paper work. They needn't know that he was the inactive accomplice to the woman doing the killing, that thread tied to all her machinations, holding her, yet prodding her at the same time with a bony, insistent finger, just over that precipice of insanity. And whether he indulged himself and played with the victims' blood a little afterward was his own business too.

In late February 1888, a woman of about thirty-eight appeared to Angelina one afternoon in her office at the hospital. It was quickly revealed what the woman wanted. The thought briefly crossed Angelina's mind that she should start charging a handsome fee for this service. Perhaps if the loathsome wenches couldn't afford it, they would stop coming to see her. However, being the obliging doctor that she was under the Hippocratic oath and hospital patient care policy, she proceeded to abort the unborn child from Miss Annie Millwood's womb. It pained her deeply to do so, but the satisfaction she would have later on that evening after she tracked the whore down would make up for her heartache.

The streets were dark, reeking of garbage and raw sewage. Whitechapel truly was where the filth of the city coagulated.

"Miss Annie Millwood, dies at precisely eleven twenty-six due to a stab wound through the heart after substantial blood loss," Grell read aloud from his little book as he leaned against the wall, red hair draped over one shoulder. "That is in about ten minutes… but, that appears to be our lady now."

The two of them remained hidden in the shadows just at the entrance of a narrow alleyway, Grell positioned between her and the wall.

It was definitely the same woman all right. Angelina recognized that face. It was the same face that she had stared at in hatred back in her office, all the while trying to keep her own composure. The same face that asked her to destroy life, a request she fulfilled even though it killed her just a little more inside. That face was ugly, hideous: it was the face of a soulless, cold-hearted monster.

Angelina glanced over her shoulder at Grell for just a moment, and saw his sharp teeth bared in the wicked grin of a sadist's delight.

That was her signal. She returned the gesture with an upturned corner of the mouth and looked forward once more, relocating and sizing up her target.

Stepping from the shadows, Angelina watched as the woman made her way down the street and turned the corner around the building. She followed at a distance, making certain that her stiletto was tucked safely into her jacket. She also had a scalpel hidden in her boot, just in case.

Angelina drew closer to her target, the woman never once noticing that she was being followed. She turned another corner, and Angelina ducked down a nearby alleyway to catch her at the exit.

Annie only saw Angelina after she was on top of her. Grabbing the woman's clothing, Angelina yanked her out of sight into the alleyway. She threw her to the ground by the shirt collar, immediately clapping a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle the woman's screams for help and pleas for mercy. Angelina had no desire to explain to this thing why it was going to die tonight. She had no compassion and no mercy to give at this moment, and even if she had, the woman did not deserve any of it. The only thing she felt was fury, as adrenaline and madness released into her system and made course through her body.

She held the knife up to her face, watched the eyes grow wide and quickly fill with moisture. A high-pitched whimpering came from beneath Angelina's hand, muffled though it may have been.

Angelina considered her knife for another moment, gazing at it with longing as she would a dear lover. Then she turned her gaze back to the thing beneath her and smirked before thrusting her knife into its chest. She stabbed and stabbed, over and over, using all the force she could muster to drive the blade and bury it to the hilt with each blow. The closer to the pelvic region she got, the deeper and more violent her marks became. Her frenzy had taken over and she did not even realize the amount of energy this activity was costing her. She didn't care. The sight of blood on her knife was like a miracle elixir to her senses.

"Dear Madame," her accomplice said, appearing at her side as the thing trembled violently and bled onto Angelina's dress. Immediately, she stopped her incensed stabbing, chest heaving, her gaze locked with the pitiful creature beneath her. The crimson reaper looked down upon it, considering it, pondering. "You must not be so hasty when it comes to matters such as these. You must be more… creative. Watch."

Grell was centimeters from her, their faces almost touching. She could smell his breath. Rose petals. He looked down and lifted the hem of her skirt ever so slightly, then gently and tenderly raked his fingertips down her calf toward her ankle. A shiver ran through her body. Despite her blush, she flashed a sadistic smile at her friend, which she then directed toward the thing beneath her weight. His fingers slipped beneath the top of her boot, and quickly found the handle of scalpel she had hidden there. He procured it quickly and held it before both of them, turning it, allowing the dim light of the street lamp across the way to glint off of its shiny surface.

"You must play with this creature, the same way you play in the bedroom. Let the anticipation build before the big moment. Don't just dive right in, that's no fun at all."

Its struggling lessened, eyes, rolling back into the sockets, head lolling beneath her gloved hand. Grell took her free hand, the one with the knife, and uncurled her fingers from around the hilt, replacing it with the scalpel.

"Now…" he turned his gaze to the victim, brushed Angelina's cheek with the back of his hand. "Tell her what you're going to do."

Angelina's breathing was heavy, her glare menacing, wordlessly threatening the creature that would soon be destroyed.

"This blade is extremely sharp," she said, now a hint of a smile on the corners of her lips. "Your skin is quite soft and will give way very easily to its edge."

Angelina put the blade to the inside of the thing's elbow and jabbed it in ever so slightly. A bit of blood pooled around the tip. It squirmed and whimpered. She applied a bit more pressure and a spurt of scarlet splashed Grell in the face. He cackled malevolently.

"That's good, Madame, but use the edge as you would a paint brush. She is quite a dull-looking woman if you ask me. Don't you think?"

Madame kept her cold gaze to her work.

"Make a masterpiece out of her. Paint her red with your fury and passion."

With the care and precision that only a doctor such as she could achieve, Angelina slid the blade agonizingly slowly through the skin from the middle of the forearm to the inside of the wrist, absorbing the pleasure it gave her to see such a sight and know that it was produced by her own hand. Blood poured out like a small fountain, coloring the arm a deep, satisfying crimson. It trickled over the cobbles beneath her knees and caked in the hair of the soon-to-be corpse, having long since ceased its struggle.

The blood had begun to spread around the scene. Angelina leaned forward so that her hands bathed in the growing scarlet puddle, her arms supporting her upper body. She looked down at the thing and, lowering herself, she took her right hand then and squeezed the jaw between the fingers of her right hand so that it was looking her square in the face. With her other hand, she smeared the blood from the puddle across the face, hearing a soft but still audible moan escape the lips. She snickered and pressed her body against her victim's, looking finally to Grell, a seductive glint in her eye.

That calf was still exposed from when he had extracted the scalpel from her boot and she pulled her knee up to her chest, forcing him to take note of it. The curl of her lips as she pressed her cheek the victims' was cruel, the look in her eye, wicked. She placed her left hand in the blood pool again, and then used it to smooth the skin along the arm, stretching it out, streaking the blood down its length, uncurling the weak fingers and interlocking them with her own.

All the while, Grell kneeled nearby watching, highly impressed and quite aroused.

He procured his pocket watch then, nearly jolting to his feet when he noticed the time.

"So sorry to end your fun, Madame, but this client has nearly expired," he said, rising to his feet, moving to stand above her where she lay. "You'll need to finish her off and you'll need to do it now."

Madame grinned and nodded, then took up her knife once more. Making sure she had it centered right over the heart, she jammed the point through fatty tissue, muscle, and cartilage so that the blade was no longer visible, wedged between two ribs. The body gave a few more involuntary twitches before she yanked her knife out of it and moved out of Grell's way. Grell brought the point of his scythe down into the chest, very little blood left for cause to spray from the wound.

Still breathing heavily, Angelina just felt numb. Her body hummed as if she had just been dropped from the sky and was now freefalling toward the Earth. She felt a tingly weightlessness spread through her body as if all her organs had become detached within her and were now floating around from simple inertia.

Grell marked the death of Annie Millwood in his book while Angelina simply stared at him, anticipating something more. She needed something more. If she couldn't have more blood, then she wanted him.

"That was wonderful, Madame. Just brilliant."

She stood then and approached him, wrapping her arms around his midsection and kissing him deeply. He returned the gesture, but when she moved her hands to his lower back, he pushed her away.

"So sorry, love. I haven't got the time right now." He pointed to his book, cocking his head to the side and flashing her a sheepish grin.

She grabbed his chin, the same way she had her victim, and looked up at him through heavy, smoky eyes.

"You'll come to me later?"

"Yush. Of coursh," he replied through squished cheeks.

She let go of his face, relishing the bloody handprints left there. "Good."

He pecked her on the lips, and then regarded her for a moment.

"Ta!"

And with that, he leaped to the roof of the nearest building and was gone.

The difference between this kill and all the other kills attributed to her, was that this time, she had been better able to control her frenzy. She had Grell to thank for that. Over the last two years, he had been slowly teaching her that there was an art and technique to the trade of dealing death to others. He taught her how to enjoy the rush to the fullest and greatest extent. Angelina had a medical license, and understood anatomy, but that only got her so far without a method for her madness. Though, it probably did not hurt her eagerness and quickness to learn. Grell was a good tutor, though how and where he'd learned some of the things he knew, she was almost afraid to ask.

* * *

His shift was ending, and he was eager to get back to Madame Red's as soon as he could manage. Grell had never seen her in such a primal state, and it was a nice little sight to see. He just hoped that by the time he returned to her, she would still be eager for his company. The best times they had were always after a particularly delicious kill, after all.

When he finally made it back to the office, there was hardly anyone around. Heels clicking on the marble floor, he made his way to his desk and sat down. He produced some blank forms from the drawer that were required for death list turn-in and began to fill them out quickly. The sooner this night was over, the better.

Hearing the sound of papers shuffling behind him in the distance, he looked discreetly over his shoulder. Ah, William was still in his office. No doubt he was aggravated about the overtime that the work, whatever it might be, was causing him. William hated overtime, but he was one of the strictest and hardest working reapers in the office. He took his job very seriously, and even though he liked to treat Grell with great deal of disdain, the two of them were quite good friends. William was a proud creature, probably just as proud, if not more so, than even Grell was himself, and because Grell was not exactly the most liked reaper in the London office, Will was reluctant to admit it.

The fact that Grell knew so much about Will was proof enough of their intimacy. There were plenty more secrets he kept in confidence about his supervisor; some he'd learned directly from the source, and some of which he'd even been an active participant. But despite his feelings for Will, for the time being, he needed Angelina's company. She was just too easy. But then again, she was also human. He'd never had any real physical relationship with Will, but that was okay. Will didn't want it, and Grell wasn't in the habit of crossing thick lines, at least with William anyway. Thin lines… Well, that was another story.

Thinking about William was distracting. He was going to see Angelina later on tonight. She was waiting for him. She had originally proposed this relationship to not be an affair, but maybe that's what it had turned into.

He let out a heavy sigh and rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, trudging along through his paperwork. Though his friendship with William and his friendship with Angelina were two totally different things, it kind of felt like cheating, now that he thought about it. William had no idea Grell was fraternizing with a human. If he ever found out about Grell's little alliance with this woman, he'd be in big trouble.

He began to ponder the prospect that William might actually know something. The more he thought about it, the more real the possibility became. He was sure his slate was clean in this realm, but he could not know for certain.

Gathering his paperwork and death list for the evening, he made his way toward the dispatch office exit, just past William's private office. He slowed as he passed the door, peeking in to see if there was any indication at all that…

"Sutcliff," said the manager, his head snapping up from the paper in his hands. He looked tired. Just as Grell suspected, Will was not happy. "Can I help you?"

"Oh, Will, darling," he said, affecting the droll tone he regularly took with his manager, "you should go home and get some rest. You look a fright!"

"No. Not until this paperwork is done."

"But you'll have plenty of time to do it in the morning, dear. Honestly, it's not healthy to skimp on sleep."

William stared at him for a long moment, his gaze, icy.

"Unless you have an important matter to bring to my attention, I suggest you move along. I cannot work with you hovering there like a bright red wasp."

"You wound me, darling. Why so cruel?"

William grunted and returned to his work. Grell remained in the doorway. After about fifteen seconds, William slapped the paper down on the desk, and turned his glare back up to his subordinate, huffing in exasperation.

"Mr. Sutcliff. What do you _want_?" he demanded.

"I-I was just wondering," he said leaning through the doorframe, "I have been quite busy these last few weeks. Has there been any juicy gossip going around lately that you might have heard about?"

He suspected that if William knew anything, he would hardly be in the proper spirits to divulge it at the moment, but it didn't hurt to try.

"Yes. As a matter of fact I have," he said, a bit more venom coloring his tone, "it was a rumor that a certain red head was going to be suspended if he did not leave his supervisor alone. Get out this instant, Sutcliff. I'll not ask you again."

He immediately went back to his work, and that was good enough for Grell. He slunk off, a coy grin on his face, to turn in his paperwork and death list for the evening. He would enjoy Angelina's company little more tonight, knowing that William had no knowledge of it.


	8. Chapter 8: Customized Murder

_Kuroshitsuji and all characters © Yana Toboso and SquareEnix._

_Just to let everyone know, and this may just be a repeated announcement for some, but I now have a facebook page, which I will be using to make updates and announcements about my fan fiction, art, and more. So if you would like to know when chapters are being worked on, when they're being posted etc. I implore you check it out! I am pretty good about updating it regularly._

_You can find the page by adding "com" after the dot: facebook._/Darkmuse112 or you can find the direct link on my profile page. Or you can search it on Facebook. Capitalization must be exactly as it is in the link above._

_ALSO: If you think it would be advantageous for me to start a Twitter feed because you prefer getting updates and such that way, let me know and I may consider it!_

* * *

Chapter 8: **Customized Murder**

He had given it some thought in the past, but until recently, the subject of customizing his death scythe had not been an immediate calling. The plane old sickle was so out of date and cliché. No fashionable lady would be caught dead wearing the same dress as another, and he felt the same way about his sickle. Qualified reapers used the tall, long handled sickle, unlike reapers-in-training who used a smaller sickle that could be holstered on a belt. The top of his head was only a few inches shorter than the top of the blade when he stood his scythe on end. He needed something a little more practical and easier to wield. Although he had put a modification request in to General Affairs some months ago, he had yet to hear back from them. It was odd that he had received no response, but he let it go. He decided to go ahead and modify his scythe, sans the paperwork. Will would probably cite him for it, but he didn't expect there would be any extreme consequences. At worst, he would receive a light slap on the back of the hand.

It took him a couple weeks, and a lot of trial and error, before he figured out the correct mechanics. He wanted a violent tool, something as loud and boisterous as he, that would make quick, satisfying work of his human targets. It had to be the perfect instrument, an accompanying symphony to the dance of the dying souls it would collect.

When his work was finished, he stood back and gazed upon his creation in admiration. It was beautiful, starting at the red motor body all the way down to the razor-sharp, rotating blades. It would extract a soul twice as fast, which was undeniably convenient, but it would also make a bigger mess of things; a fact that did not bother him in the slightest.

It had been a little more than a month since news of Annie Millwood's death had hit the papers. She did not receive front-page status: report of her body's discovery had been tucked away amidst the pages dedicated to small-scale scandal and other domestic issues. She had been found some time during the pre-dawn hours of February 26th, behind the South Grove Workhouse on Mile End Road. She was bloody and pretty badly injured, but her wounds indicated that it had been, more than likely, the work of an angry customer.

The days were beginning to grow longer, but the weather was no less forgiving. It had been raining for days, and when it wasn't raining the wind was bitter and brutal. The constant damp did serve one good purpose though, and that was to wash away the blood.

Madame watched on as Grell waggled a long, curved knife in the woman's face. Although he was faster and stronger, he relied on her to take down the victims, and this was because she was the only one of them who could identify the targets from when they'd seen her at the hospital. She would follow them until the ideal moment, Grell always trailing discreetly behind. She realized suddenly, that he had yet to lay a hand on any of the women she'd killed, but it was Grell that now straddled it, pinning the arms beneath his knees. He sat back, looking down at the victim with sadistic eyes, playing with the knife as she screamed. Angelina wished that it would stop. It hurt her ears, and someone was bound to notice if it went on long enough.

Grell leaned forward, crouching over the thing now on all fours. His hair and cloak concealed the face from Angelina's view. When he sat up straight again, the thing had lowered it's wailing to a low whimper, and the bottom lip had a new shallow slice in it, Grell licking a drop of blood from the tip of the blade.

"You see, Madame," he said, looking over his shoulder at her, "I can get her to do whatever I want. You need to learn how to do this. See? I made her stop screaming."

Angelina approached Grell from behind and kneeled down, resting her chin on his shoulder. His hair smelled nice this evening. Like roses.

Grell sighed, a low moan escaping his lips along with it. Madame's presence against his back incensed him, and he turned his gaze back to the woman beneath him.

He took the knife again and slowly ripped off the buttons off her dress, popping them into the air with tiny ripping sounds. She quivered even worse when he did this, but she still did not scream. A high-pitched whine came from the back of her throat instead.

"Please, dear. No sounds. I told you what would happen, did I not, if you disobeyed this rule?"

She stared up at him with a tear-streaked face, eyes large and watering; her lips bloody, crimson, and gorgeous. He leaned down and kissed her, then licked the blood from his own lips, smearing the rest across his face with the back of his hand. He was going to have to find some place to clean up after this, as he had an appointment in 20 minutes. This was just something to keep him occupied while he waited. The fact that Madame Red was with him was only incidental.

Madame Red was a fast learner, and he suspected that soon there would not be much more he could teach her. He figured that it was time for some much-anticipated demonstration, and he was sure she was taking it in, as he felt her pressed against his back, watching hungrily and admiring his skill. He had wanted to do this for so long, but he had been holding back. Why though, he now could not remember.

Watching Grell mutilate the thing was like watching a dancer, an elegant piece of performance art. It was a feast for the eyes, the raw power, and grace with which he moved the knife. The way he paused dramatically at all the appropriate moments. The way he lost himself in the moment, enjoying the taste and feel of the blood that spilled from the wicked gashes in its body. He was a savage, either no longer Grell or completely Grell. Which part of himself had he been hiding from her? No, there was no hiding now. She was as much a part of this as he. She knew everything, saw everything. He was laid bare before her in the most glorious display of carnage, with nothing left to hide.

He felt the most wonderfully pleasant sensation in his trousers. Madame Red would most likely be seeing him again tonight.

The woman was neither on his death list, nor was she slated to die any time soon. Wrong. Illegal. Her soul was not being reaped. A fundamental law that all reapers held true, but he had lost his grasp of it in his current mental state.

He'd noticed that his life had been a little off-kilter lately. He'd not been as hungry as usual, eating little to no food at meals. He had been sleeping less hours a night than he was used to as well, only getting about 6 hours instead of his customary 8. As a result, his skin had become uneven, and although no one at the office had said anything about it, they noticed, he could tell. He saw the way they all looked at him, silently judging with their cold, dead eyes and their ugly piggish faces. He'd have them all if he had the power. He just passed it off as getting himself into the part of Madame's butler. No human man would ever appear to take such good care as Grell did normally, so this only enhanced his character's believability.

There was no rhyme or reason to it, really. Normal habits that he was accustomed to had slowly been changing, and although he dealt with it, he could not control it. But he did not like dwelling on things, so he paid as little mind to it as possible. Maybe he was falling ill. Though there were few diseases that actually affected reapers in such a manner, it was a possibility. One thing it did not explain was his moodiness. The other reapers were used to his tendency for little melodramatic outbursts, so nobody said anything. However, what they seemed not to notice was the higher frequency with which they had been occurring.

Grell took the knife and with the blade pressed to the woman's neck, slowly sliced through her windpipe and carotid artery. Instead of spraying, the blood seeped out in bursts, synchronized with the woman's dying heartbeat. Grell smiled at his handiwork. Her head flopped to the side as air from her lungs expelled through the open gash. He made another, longer gash just above the last one and more blood poured out. He felt arms wrap around his middle, and then a finger appeared below the woman's nose.

"Dead." Madame's voice sighed in his ear.

He closed his eyes for a moment, the grin on his face, enormous.

"My middle name…"

Oh, but he had to go. His next appointment was in ten minutes and he needed to be all the way on the other side of his sector. Some rich tea-trade magnate was due to trip on his beloved cat very soon.

"Good bye, love," he said, giving Angelina one last kiss. "You know your way home. I will see you later tonight. If you abide it."

She merely smiled back. Then he was gone.


End file.
